Love is for children
by absolutely-enraptured
Summary: Natasha is assigned to keep an eye on Tony and the two find themselves in quite a different situation than they expected. Nat/Tony, mostly smut.
1. Chapter 1

I just wanted to write an Avengers fic for these two ;)

I don't own anything, unfortunately.

* * *

From across the room, even through the dark and the crowd filling the space, Tony can see Natasha. He has a particular eye for women—that he won't deny—but this is to her credit, not his.

The entire Avengers team went out to a bar to celebrate their victory. Steve, just learning how to use a cell-phone, had texted '_assemble_' to them. One word and they had all crowded into a small bar that hadn't been destroyed in the fight for Earth.

Tony's not drunk, yet, and the five emptied scotch glasses near his hand are evidence that he can hold his liquor. He ignores the others attempts to rope him into a conversation and ignores at least three women's lipsticked smiles but what can he say, he's not desperate for company. Never is. Not him.

That's when Natasha makes her way over to him. Five glasses, and a smirk on his lips.

She walks over to him in a dress cut tight to her body. She looks like something he has been waiting for all night. Her dress is red. Blood red and slit up the side to show just a small amount of thigh. She belongs in a film, black and white and when the camera pans across her face she breaks every heart in the cinema, she looks like—

Now, now. Wouldn't want to give her too much ground. As long as he doesn't say these things out loud. He straightens up, watching her.

She slides onto the stool next to him with a cold smile. "Hello, Mr. Stark."

"Agent Romanoff," He tips his glass to her. "You've kept us waiting all."

Her legs uncross, "Yes, well, some of us actually put time into our appearance when going out for a night on the town."

"Well, I'm thankful that you do put the time," He smirks, eyes just barely flicker down to give her a once over. "You make up for the rest of us."

"Why aren't you with the rest of them?" She jerks her head over to where the others are playing pool and laughing. "Tired of the attention?"

"Are you kidding?"

He signals the bartender to bring him another drink and when he does, Tony takes slides it across the wooden surface and Natasha catches it one hand. So what if he buys a drink for her? He's bought drinks for many women, but this time there's no stakes involved, course not, no sir, he's a man of honor these days. What he doesn't expect is Natasha to smile and to pull those big eyes on him.

"Stark," She says in that voice of hers, "I wasn't actually planning on staying for too long."

"Me either," He shrugs and for a moment, his eyes fall where her breasts rise and fall in black lace.

She eases her shoulders back from tension, presses herself against the back of the seat and takes a sip from the glass, printing lipstick around the rim. "So, what will you do now that the fighting's over?"

"Repair Stark tower for starters," He tells her. "Then...I don't know, do a press conference or something." It's never been a tangible reality to him, all of this hero business. It's always seemed surreal, just out of reach somehow. It doesn't feel real when he's right smack in the middle of it, it's like some video game he can hit restart on if he screws up, it's only when he wakes up covered in bruises the next morning that it all dawns on him. His genius has always been the tangible. Lists and numbers and catalogs and facts. And that's never made the images of dead bodies follow him home. "What about you?"

"I don't know yet," She replies, knocking back the rest of the scotch and setting down the glass, pushing it out of fingers' reach. "Whatever S.H.I.E.L.D gives him I suppose."

"And here I thought you would actually be relaxing."

"When are our lives ever relaxing?"

His mouth twitches: _true_.

He trails a finger over one of his empty glasses. "Think I might take a vacation soon."

"Since when do heroes take breaks?"

There's a response he can give to this. Something sharp and suitably witty but it won't come.

"Look, since we're both not spending all night here," Tony slides in closer, smelling like alcohol and mint and something spicy. "We should just leave together," His hand slips up against her knee, he's taking a risk here which could result in bruises and a black-eye. His hand rests there against her warm skin. Less warm than he expected. "Spend the night elsewhere."

She laughs, sharp, Steve and Clint turn to look, and drops a hand to his lapel. It's not quite a laugh though that she gives him. It's something out of reach, infuriating. Her nails are digging in and for a moment he thinks she might grab him by it and slam his head onto the bar table. She shakes her head, slipping her top lip part-way into her mouth, smudging her lipstick. "Well, seeing as I have no other plans for this evening, I might just have to take you up on that offer."

Six glasses left behind, condensation on his skin, the shape her hand left behind on his lapel(and maybe this is a bad idea, someone will notice. Someone always notices).

They find a cab that's driving by, "Stark Tower" is all he says and he does not look behind him to see if any of the others had noticed once they are in the cab and driving off. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the window for a cool, silent moment. Then she shifts in her seat and his eyes snap open, his hand is on her leg again and she looks at him, her eyes are becoming clearer, almost sly.

He knows he will not ask her why this, why now, why him. He has been aching for this for a while now. They hop out of the cab and he gestures for her to walk ahead of him, ladie's first and all that.

"After you, Miss Romanoff."

"Mr. Stark," She says and his name turns into a gasp as he clutches at her, as he hitches her hips against his. The red fabric of her dress stretches against her thighs and nails dig into his jaw and they stumble inside of the tower.

She moves, quick as smoke, into the room, into the air he breathes, slides in between him and the now closed metal door. When he kisses her, her nails clench swift and sharp against his skin, something wicked in the pricking of her thumbs, crushing their lips together. His fingers search for skin, the skirt of her dress bunching under his hand.

He tastes the same as she does, scotch-soaked and coal-hot, and she pulls him in closer, his lips smear past hers, against her ear, her neck, and she gasps. He runs a languid hand down her back and she arches into him. She is pushing the jacket from his shoulders, peeling down the sheer stockings she's wearing under her dress and Tony backs her against the wall, and his hands at her hips, one long leg hitches at his waist.

He pulls up her dress, settling it around her upper thighs, her hips straining the silken fabric. Tony tugs off his own shirt and Natasha curls her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and he makes a sound, low and deep in his throat. Her hand is trapped between them, moving down between Tony's legs.

Natasha slips her hand in.

His head falls to her shoulder for a moment and he tangles his fingers in her hair, tugs hard; his own hand slips lower and lower, grazing flesh, her thighs and the bone of her hip. His hands find the zipper at her side, he unzips and her dress falls away like liquid.

She pulls away slightly to step out of her dress and his breath is thick in his throat. She shimmies out of her underwear, unclasping her bra before pulling down his pants and pushing herself up against him again, sliding her hand back to it's former spot.

He shifts, stirring under her hand, hard and anxious, hips pushing up closer to her. Her hand is moving in a practiced rhythm and he hisses, teeth biting his lip.

His mouth is brutal in its want as he takes her in his hands, slides his palm down her belly, lowers his mouth to her collarbone, scraping his teeth. Natasha's fist tightens on his hair with a half-choked gasp as he follows the lines and whorls of her body with his tongue.

Natasha slides her legs up over his hips, pulls his face up to hers, spreading her legs. She's already wet when his hand finds her. He drives one finger into her, then two, moving them slow, meticulous; Natasha is moaning, gasping incoherently. He's biting a hard line into his lip, curling his fingers, her legs spread luxurious and wide around his hand. She curls her own fingers around his base and he sighs deep in her ear, burrows into her neck. There is a playfulness in her strokes to match that impossible aura of hers. He licks his lips absently (she bites her tongue inside her mouth).

He slides his cock into her, and he digs his fingers into the bony hollows of her spine, watching her eyes close. She bucks her hips against him, kisses him and sinks in her teeth. There's nothing to separate them when they press skin to skin. Not even air.

His hands rake through her hair, catching and pulling until she whimpers in spite of herself. She tightens her thighs around his hips. There is no breath and yet somehow she catches it and catches it again. His hands slide over her skin greedy as a lion's mouth, rough and desperate.

This is easy, this makes sense. This is the thing that makes sense: Natasha Romanoff, slick and tight against him, her gasp in his mouth, his chin in her hands, the veins of his neck beating against her palms.

His hands dig into her skin, hard enough to bruise and her hips roll, pressing her heels in, the breath choking and sighing from his throat. He thrusts into her faster, and she buries her hands in his hair, unconcerned with the pitch of her moans, she arches up against him and positively writhes.

It's like they have all the time in the world as she arches slick against his cock and Tony slams her against the wall.

"_Fuck,_" he says, reaching, arching between her legs. Natasha arches with him, wordless before she's soundless, panting and writhing with red cheeks and scraping nails and wild eyes. He fucks her until she stills, back tense as a violin string, with her legs wrapped around him and her elbow digging painfully into the wall, until he's spent and can't tell where she ends or where the whole wide wet world begins.

When she opens her eyes, she can see blood fading under his skin, the red rake of her nails and the bruise of her mouth. Breath ragged, she rests her open mouth against the line of his throat. Tony doesn't move from his spot between her legs until they both have their breath back. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the arc reactor in his chest.

"I," She wets her lips, voice cracking. "I think I'll head back to my hotel now, I'm tired."

He smirks, letting a chuckle pass his lips. "After all that, if you weren't tired, I'd be surprised."

Natasha looks at him. "You're a smug bastard."

"I've been called worse."

He feels her slip out of his grasp. She has her back turned to him as she slips on her bra and panties. She smiles.

* * *

_"Hello, Stark__._"

He's in his lab, tweaking his suit a bit when Natasha moves in behind him. Tony jumps up slightly, he didn't notice her walk in. Maybe she got lost in the sound of the wielding torch, the smoke, maybe, maybe. Too many maybes. She's a walking uncertainty, an unstable variable. He doesn't like it. Hard as that is to remember with her breasts pressed to his back.

He coughs. "What are you doing here?"

She's grinning like the cat that caught the canary. "Looking for you," she says, and her other hand slips lazily down his spine, over his jacket, then under. Her fingers trail against his belt, gripping the buckle.

"How did you even get in here?"

"You let me in."

"Didn't." He says. "Didn't do any such thing."

"If you didn't let me in," she asks, "then why am I here?"

"Because you're a spy and sneaking in is what you do best." He turns around and he's in her arms, wrapped in her without thinking. "So, I ask again, why are you here? Cause if Loki's back you can definitely count me in." All she does is smile, smile, and wait, fingers toying with his belt. "Are you just going to sit there and be ominous all day?" he asks her.

"We're going after a man named Thanos."

"What's he done?"

"It's not for what he's done, it's for what he's about to do."

"Oh, spare me," he bites off, "Another lunatic just dying at the chance to take over Earth."

She acts as if he's never said anything and sits down onto the desk he's working on, sliding into the open space of his hand, the leather of her shield costume and flesh filling his fingers. He spins her around, pinning her hips to the desk, brushing her hair away from her neck.

Tony's mouth traces the back of her neck, the whorls of bone beneath her skin. "Course there are terms that come with me joining up with the Avengers again," he says with his mouth on her skin.

Her back arches most parenthetically in a way he has learned that she loves to do, and when she gasps that is a thing that is learned as well. "And they are?"

His lips press to her neck, linger. She reaches around, grabbing a handful of his hair, holding him there until he takes her hand in his, his mouth along the underside of her wrist. "I want my own room. I want complimentary drinks, I want—"

"Do you want anything that's actually necessary?"

"Hmm, not really." He replies, slipping the zipper down her chest.

Her fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling his hand into the space between fabric and skin. She sighs, her cheeks have grown nearly pink and her smile is a slice of fruit worth biting.

"Anyway," She tells him, "Just came by to check on you."

"Aww, that's so sweet. You care."

She grins. "Love is for children, you know." Somehow, he doesn't believe her. Not one bit.

"So I've heard."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for you reviews and favorites :)

THESE TWO. I could not resist writing another section. They are too delicious, so basically writing more of them was an inevitability. This one however has been sitting in my computer for some time now so I thought I'd post it.

* * *

Natasha is reclining under the moon on the couch beneath the window her room inside of S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, her hair loose and damp and eyes shut. She flicks a glance backward when the door opens and then looks away, pretending not to have noticed.

"I never took you for the kind that stares longing out of windows," Tony quips, crossing his arms.

Natasha laughs, eyes still closed. "You know it's not polite to come into a woman's room in the middle of the night unannounced," she says. Tony stoops to pick up the book that's sitting next to her on the couch, flipping through it as he perches on the armrest.

"A Russian Epic?" Tony says. "_Really?_"

She makes a hissing sound through her teeth. "Says the man who once wrote verses for a girl when you were high school. S.H.I.E.L.D does it's research _very _well. Do I still have a copy of them, I wonder? We do keep _excellent _records."

Tony closes the book and sets it aside. "Mean."

She sets her lips tightly against a smile. "So, what's keeping you up?"

"Headache," He says shortly.

"Aww, poor baby," She snorts. "You know they're bound to come once in a blue moon."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," He waves her off. "What about you?"

"Nightmares."

"What, no dreams about me? We'll have to fix that."

She opens one eye and then closes it again. "If you're going to be an ass, Tony, you don't need to hang around," she says coolly.

He mimics zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key.

"Better."

He reaches down to rake her hair back away from her face; he sees her eyelids flutter. His hands run through her hair and then move rest on the edge of her hips; her tank top has crumpled up around her ribs, and she feels his fingers stroke lightly over her skin, he watches the hitch in the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

"See," he says into her ear, fingers wrinkling the silk waistband of her pajama bottoms. "I'm not completely bad company."

"Mmm," she says, swallowing. "Alright, you can stay."

He laughs quietly, leaning in closer, his fingers fitting between the slope of her ribs. She smells of lemon and honey and a thousand other notes, muted and indefinable.

"Mhm, thought so," is all he says, but the point isn't his words. The point is his hands, resting at the hem of her top and the pads of his fingers moving in slow circles.

Her eyes open and pink lips part over white, even teeth; she smiles. "You know," she says. "That Russian Epic wasn't even that bad, I've read worse."

"You're ridiculous."

She crosses her eyes at him and he laughs. His hand settles on her bare ankle; her pajama pants are rumpled and trapped under her knee, revealing the curve of her calf. She is watching him still, steadily, questioningly.

"Tony, I don't think—" Her words cut off as he lets the hand still lingering at her ankle trace up her leg, eyes fixed on hers all the while. He moves it, trapped between soft fabric and soft skin, up the inside of her thigh, languorously slow, her skin shivering under his touch.

He moves over top her, holding himself up above her on one hand. His mouth slips in against her neck so he can feel her swallow. Traces his tongue up the column of her throat, up to the curve of her mouth. The kiss is hot, sticky, and slow. He slides his hand over her breast, fingers clenching slowly through her tank top. He is hardening under his own pajamas already, and she writhes beneath him.

When she pulls away her eyes are wild, her cheeks flushed. Her hands sink deep into his hair as she pulls him, more firmly, on top of her. She feels his hand move away from her leg, and up to the curve of her hip then to the juncture between the two of them. His hand moves against her, blunted through her pants, pressing gently, and her lips part, parched and breathless. The moon is glinting brightly in at the edges of her vision but she keeps her eyes on him as his hand shifts and a gasp slips between her lips. Braced beside her cheek, his hand fists into the material of the couch.

Her bones arch up to meet him, feeling the waistband of her pajama bottoms peel back, her knee clasps to his hip. The em of her pajama pants is pressing into his wrist, and he has two fingers against her underwear, and she gasps, a sound sticking in her throat—and he laughs as he pushes aside the edge.

"Still threatening to make me leave?"

"Try me," she says, raking her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck to pull his face closer to hers. Her lips are just over his, breathless, her body flush against him.

He slides one finger into warm slick heat of her; her whole body jerks around him and she grips at the sleeve of his shirt and leans into him, biting hard at her lower lip. "_Yes_," she says, and he uncurls another finger into her, and she kisses his neck, rough and desperate, teeth scraping across the tender skin of his throat.

He moves them in a slow, impossible pattern, thumb against her clit. She gasps, and he laughs, hoarsely, mouth sliding down her neck. Her heart is beating time with his fingers; she can feel it in her throat and the base of her stomach.

One hand clings to the curved indentation of her waist, the other still in her pants and he moves faster and_ oh_, she mouths wordlessly. A sharp unswallowed sound of delight catches on her lips, and she furls her hand into his shirt, kissing him suddenly and sloppily on his upper lip, and he laughs into her mouth.

"What's so funny, Stark?" She asks, voice straining breathless into high, fluttery registers.

He spitefully slides his fingers in deeper and she half-strangles on a ragged moan as he moves them in her, closing her eyes tight, whole body pushing back against him. "Nothing, you're just very undignified."

"Oh, shut up." Her lips opens wide and shameless. She gasps and throws her head back, throat arched, eyes fluttering shut.

When she opens her eyes again, they are bright and she's biting her lip so hard he thinks that she might break skin. Her breath shudders out in one great gust and she shudders, moaning loudly and she drops her head wearily against the hollow of his shoulder.

"You should visit my room more often."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you guys again for the reviews and favorites and etc. :D

I promise that they'll have a real romance eventually and do it in an actual bed eventually )

* * *

He is smug when she comes into his house. Jarvis had not told him when she came through the door, there was no warning but Tony sat prepared on his couch.

He gives Natasha a small smile and says, "I've been expecting you," in sonorous tones, trying not to laugh.

Tony had last seen her two weeks ago but she still looks that same as ever dark pink lips, the dark green eyes trapped in tawny lids that he could never discern the look behind.

"Isn't that clever," She remarks, keeps her eyes fixed on his face, narrow sea eyes.

"Clever has nothing to do with it. I know what you want."

She grins, amused as much as she's annoyed. "And what do you think I want?

"Well," He says primly. "You've got that serious look on," For a moment, his face becomes overly-serious, mocking her. "And you're in your S.H.I.E.L.D outfit, so I'm assuming it's business not pleasure."

She stands in front of him, crossing her arms. "Director Fury wants me to keep an eye on you, Thanos is a greater threat than we anticipated."

"Do the others have S.H.I.E.L.D agents babysitting them as well?"

She nods.

"I should be insulted that they think I need a nanny, but if I had to have an agent looking after me at least it's you," Tony scoffs. "Well, we don't have to sneak around anymore, if we're seen together, people will just think—"

"Sneak around for what?

"You know," He smirks.

"I don't get involved with co-workers."

"Careful, Natasha," he warns, "Wouldn't want people to know that you already crossed that line."

"It was just sex," She says, turning away from him. "And it's never going to happen again."

"Right," He bites on his lower lip, stands, nods. "Of course."

"What? I'm not kidding, Stark."

"Natasha," He says to her, casting a pointed look. "Say what you want but you can't deny that you liked—"

"You're such a narcissist, you know that?" She scoffs and he shrugs. _Love is for children; don't get involved with co-workers; _these are things she has constantly told herself, almost like a mantra. But then again Tony is a warm body in an otherwise almost empty existence.

_Just fuck him again,_ She thinks to herself, hands on her hips. _Again and again until you get your sense back. Keep your head. _

She takes him by the collar then and he stumbles forward a bit, arms out to flutter near her hips before bracing on waist. Natasha pulls his face to hers, his lips in the air centimeters before hers for a maddening moment before she seals the space between them. It's not a kind kiss, his teeth scraping hers briefly before catching her lower lip between them.

He pins her against him, and allows his hands to wander along her torso. His hands are on the leather of her costume, the fabric ungentle against her breasts, shaped by his hands. His mouth traces down the line of her jaw, the soft curve of her neck, her elbow crooking around the back of his neck.

It is easier this way. It doesn't mean a thing, she can tell her self, as her legs hitches against his hips, as her nails rake up beneath his shirt, her world wrapped in leather and soft carpet beneath her feet and _Tony Stark_. Every piece of this planning on being discarded by the morning.

Natasha steps forward out of her boots and slips the zipper down, shrugs out of her outfit, it falls like it was never there. His eyes flicker down to her body, naked save a pair of silk panties and bra, plain white but still, on her it looked marvelous.

They fall back against the couch and the house around them is dark, save the glow of dim rays of light from the lamp, and she lets it engulf her. It feels secure in here; a safe place to store dangerous secrets. Tony snakes his arms around her. She is flush against his chest, the arc reactor pressing onto tender flesh and he bites her neck before freckling kisses over her neck and shoulders.

She braces a hand against his neck, her back on the soft couch, his knee parting her thighs. Tony drags his fingers over her stomach, lower, sliding her underwear aside, letting them stick where she is already wet and waiting. Her mouth makes the 'O' he is waiting for. He traces her collarbone with his mouth and moves up for her pulse before trailing lazy kisses down her breasts.

Her fingers are hard in his hair and when they pull, he hisses against her breast in turn. She lies back beneath him, "Natasha," she hears him whisper in spite of himself, and she clenches her fingers into the couch beneath her.  
She arches her back against the couch, she stares at him with wide eyes when he raises his face to her. He plants a kiss against her stomach and she chokes on a moan and claws one hand through his hair, lifting her foot to brace her toes against the far side of the couch, free hand gripping white-knuckled at his shoulder. Tony, oh, he whispers something incoherent into her skin, lips at her navel now. _God_, she feels him breathe against her, his hands stark and strong and heated against her thighs.

He's looking between her legs and he's lowering his head between them. He ducks in his head and bites, languidly, delicately against her thigh. She tries to catch her breath, and her throat aches. She hisses, softly, as he begins to kiss his way up her thighs, across the smooth planes of skin and up.

"Tony," she says, the last syllable broken on a gasp as she writhes under his mouth. His fingers circle her leg gently to lift one knee to his shoulder.

He goes measured and slow at first. His tongue slides along her, his lips press against her, the rasp of his chin, of coarse stubble, scrapes against her inner thighs. She cannot fully bite back the yelp in her throat, cannot be silent against the press of his lips, the feel of his mouth and the flick of his tongue.

She bites her hand, teeth imprinting into her palm. Natasha moans more loudly than intends to with her hips arching against Tony's mouth. She bites her lip, tasting lipstick; her thighs clench around his head and he holds her hips down.

His name keens in her throat before she remembers to bite it down so she just opens her mouth and sucks in thick breaths of air, shaking with heat and relentless ticks of pleasure underneath him. She closes her eyes (his tongue furls between her legs). He bites and sucks sequentially up between her legs until she's whimpering; she can hear the sound like it's outside her body.

He meets her gaze and she bites her tongue against a moan, her nails flexing into the lean lines of his is soaked and hot and bright and boneless, helpless, and he twists, twists as she twists and shudders as she shudders. She clenches and her mouth opens wide; Natasha Romanoff made speechless with Tony's name caught in her throat. She shakes and lets out a loud gasp of a moan. Her lashes flutter shut; his shoulders flex beneath her hands, and her body falls slack against the couch.

When she lifts her flushed head she sees that he is staring up at her with darkened eyes. The tension in her voice sounds like static snapping close when she speaks, "Okay," she says, "fine," once she has her breath back, "admittedly I don't exactly hate doing this." and he leans in to kiss her neck again, biting at her skin.


	4. Chapter 4

So here's chapter 4. I wanted to make up my own version of Natasha's past and I wanted to have Tony involved some how and it came like this :)

* * *

"Is this supposed to be some sort of test?" Natasha had questioned.

It all started with questions. They had asked her: are you aware of your duty, do you know your place. She had joined a mafia family at the age of sixteen, had spied for money to survive since she was eight. She had learned quickly that the world was a cold place. (The men who broke into her house when she was seven knew it too, they took her mother quickly, barely a scream in her mouth. She was small and hiding under the bed when they came for her father. She was small enough to watch, blood on the floor and teeth clenched in her mouth.)

Her name did not matter: the world had told her as much. Belonging is a fairytale, she was told at a young age.

She worked for a man named Kovalev. He had called her the _zmey_. He gave her assignments to do, hits and assassinations, she didn't ask questions (it wasn't her duty or her place to). The world around her was vast, and barren. The world around her starved to a pale ghost, black and white and gray are the only colors present, and she'd wondered if she was starving too, contributing to the shadows of her bones and eyes as she sat inside her head, silent and hoarding. This, surely, was no way to live.

That's not a question; she had no wish to search for an answer.

She would use knives often. She had thought of it like her signature. Slid one between a man's seventh and eighth ribs and the sound he released could almost have been mistaken for satisfaction. She had watched with impassive eyes as he wasted away. There was no quick end.

She was sometimes kind. Never merciful.

The pleasures in her life were few and dismal. Vodka fresh in a glass bottle, burning her eyes and throat, and sleep when the body forgets it is a body and the possible world cracks wide open.

Kovalev had grown power-hungry, always hunting for more people to kill, more money to be made but she had only herself to blame for feeding into this so often, so much. In the thin starry light of the night, she had looked in the mirror with a wide eyes and thought she could see her heart somewhere behind them: shriveled and tiny.  
She had lost control somewhere along the way. She had just finished a job, looking down at blood on her hands. She couldn't even remember whose it was. She had placed a bomb one time, the last time, in a building and when Kovalev had sent her in to check the damage there were dead men lying on the ground and there was a child, lying motionless.

She did not scream.

She could not scream.

She had seen blood before, she had seen death before. So, she ran.

She did not scream until she was back in small apartment, and there had been ash on her boots, and blood, and yes, she had been screaming in a room whose door she had not closed. She had screamed until she sucked the air from her lungs.

She bit her teeth against her knuckles and blinked into the darkness. Clint had found her a week later.

* * *

Natasha takes the long way back to S.H.I.E.L.D , she needs some air and the walking is bound to do her some good.

She decides to cross an alleyway that leads to the street she needs to be on, and she pauses before she enters (was that footsteps?). The alley is silent, but for the rise and fall of her breath disturbing the air.

"Hello?"

Only silence.

The wind rustles the trees behind her and the ratatat echo of it makes her jump, in spite of herself. There's a flash of a shadow in the alley, and then it's gone.

Silence, then. Natasha leans against the wall of the alley, taking in deep chemical breaths of the smoggy air. It is almost purely dark where she rests and it's almost unnerving. Almost.

She sees the shadow of a man at the end of the alleyway again.

Her hands guide themselves over the metal butt of the pistol that's tucked beneath her belt. Trigger here, safety off, clicking beneath her fingers. Although she hardly needs a gun to kill someone.

"Hey, there," comes a voice from down the alley, and she freezes in her skin, and for a moment she is silent, for a moment she cannot look back at the man, his voice sounds like someone's she once knew. "Don't I know you, girl?" and the voice is low and easy and malicious as the shadows, the man comes closer, maybe that's the outline of a gun in his hand, "I know who you are. You're Natalia, the _zmey_—"

The gun fires in her hands.

Recoil throws her back in shock, she hadn't even realized that she had her finger on the trigger, it pins her to the wall, knocks her winded against the stone, but she gets up and runs. The wrong way. Forward, not backward—it was a man, young, it's a knife in his hand, not a gun, razor-bright; she kneels to get a closer look and she's kneeling in blood.

"Fuck," She shudders. "Shit," she says to no one, one fist curls over her heart, fingers clenching into the cloth.

A man's dead. Her heart is choking in her throat and she bows her head, shaking, the blood seeping through one pant leg. She takes a deep breath and stands.

Her eyes drift closed and her blood is pounding and her pulse is racing and with a sudden heady rush of vertigo for a moment the blackness behind her eyelids is choking, terrifying, drowning.

* * *

Tony is considering ordering pizza when someone raps furiously on his front door, three times, _knock-knock-knock._

He unlocks the door with a quick twist of the wrist and Natasha's whole body slumps with relief. He stands aside to let her in. He opens his mouth to make a suggestive quip but the look on her face stops him. She moves past him to sit on a stool in front of his kitchen counter.

His lips go tight, "Natasha?"

She makes a noise of acknowledge, busy unbuttoning her coat. Tony comes over to her, climbing onto the stool next to her, leaning one elbow back on the counter to peer into her face, "You okay?" and with a shiver she looks up at him at last. Her eyes are shadowed like the hollow sockets of a skull in the dark. He wants to reach and touch her, would do so if she were any other woman but Natasha Romanov is not just any woman.

"I'm fine," she says with something untouchably cold in her eyes, and she sinks her teeth into her lip until she can almost taste blood.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" Tony asks, head bowed.

She closes her eyes. "I was walking back to S.H.I.E.L.D," she says. "And I was crossing through and alley and I don't know. I didn't know who he was at first. He stepped in my way And then I was getting up to leave for home and he said, 'Don't I recognize you, girl?', he works for a man I used to know. Then—he—" Natasha's throat closes up and she falls silent. After a pause she shakes her head and adds, more levelly this time, "Anyway, it didn't go too well from there."

"Well, the important thing is that you're okay, right?" he says.

"Yes, Tony," she says, almost bitterly. "I took care of it."

He laughs. The sound of it is choked. "Yes, I guess you damn well did." He sighs then looks at her. "Come on," he says. "Let's clean you up."

"How bad am I?" Natasha asks with a wince as they go behind the counter to the sink. Tony turns both taps on full blast. He turns back to her with the wet cloth, scrubbing first at her fingers.

"Shirt," he says and she wants to make a remark about always trying to get her clothes off but she can't find it in her to say anything. She peels off her shirt; it comes away sticky. There is blood that she hadn't seen before, smeared down her chest, splatters disappearing into the dark fabric of her bra. Tony raises the rag to her throat, smoothing it more gently now down the line of her collarbone.

Once he's done, she pulls her shirt back on and then she turns away but he stops her.

"Wait."

"What is it now?" She frowns, spreading her arms wide and turning around, full circle, for him to get a proper look at her.

"Your shoes."

She looks down at her boots, the toe of her left shoe and the side of her right one are crimson-splotched. She slips out of her shoes and hands them to Tony, he takes the towel and scrubs them clean before hooking two fingers into the counters of the shoes and handing them back to her. She sets them down on the floor and puts her shirt back on.

"Look, he had a knife," she says defensively and for a moment she realizes that she sounds like her old-self, making excuses for the things she did. "I did what was necessary, he could've hurt someone or have gotten away to tell-" She breaks off, looks away.

Tony nods after a moment, his eyes flick up to hers, dark and glinting in the dim light.

"You know, I don't like knives," She says after a moment, dropping her eyes, she hasn't really like them since she'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. The wet rag moves down her chest, over her collarbones. "Guns either, really, though they're sort of necessary. Messy, intimate." Natasha remembers men's hot sour breath on her cheek, the way a knife feels when she slides it into someone's gut, like a blade slipping through butter. She shudders.

Tony's looking at her sharply. They don't talk about this; they have never talked about this. But after a moment he gives her a curt nod, passing the cloth to her so she can work on her hair.

Natasha runs the cloth under the tap once more. There is one stubborn lock of hair by her face that won't come clean, still stiff and matted with blood. Tony puts his hands in his pockets and leans back, watching her.

"How did it feel?" he asks abruptly.

She stares. "Horrible," she says, wondering why he would ask such a thing; and then she pauses and sighs, reconsidering. "_Good._"

Tony nods once, and then he pushes himself away from the sink. "What did you do with the body?"

"I got rid of it," she says, her voice sounding odd and brittle to her own ears, "trust me, I'm good with this kind of stuff."

"I can believe it," he says.

She stands near the corner of the counter and the refrigerator and rubs a hand over her forehead. "My past isn't exactly the cleanest."

"I've heard," he says simply. He's watching her. The silence stretches between them—elastic.

"I suppose it's not as under-wraps as I would like it to be."

"We all make mistakes, you know." he says, and she folds her arms tight across her chest, fingers digging into her arms.

"Yeah," she replies, "but not everyone's ends in piles of dead bodies."

Silence. It prickles horribly.

He turns away slightly, "You want some pizza? I wanted to order some-"

"Tony—" She stops, shakes her head— "did you hear me?"

"You're acting like it's your fault," He says, and she sinks her nails into the flesh of her arms. Her skin stings, her nails indenting deep curved crescents.

"The hell it's not. What part of the past years I've spent trying to redeem myself hasn't anyone noticed?"

"Natasha," he says to her, "No one looks at you as the same woman you used to be."

Her breathing is shaky, sharp and unbearably loud. "I still am the same, Stark. Today's events proved that, I haven't changed at all, I'm where I've always been." She wants to vomit her heart for it.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says, "Look at all you've done," and she laughs, the sound sharp in her throat.

"I know," She sighs. "I know."

_"_So? Doesn't it mean anything."

She shakes her head. "No, I've got red in my ledger and maybe Loki was right, I can't wipe it out."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." He says like it's funny, that humor of his coming into play at the wrong moment, he shouldn't say things like that when her blood is boiling like this, when memories are flowing fresh and raw like a cut under her tongue.

The space between them takes a step to cross, and she slaps him. Hard. It's not his fault but he's the nearest scape-goat and she'll take it. Both her arms and her palm are stinging now, and it is only when her hand has cracked against his cheek that he catches her. His fingers are tight against the bone of her wrist.

"Sorry," She says, hollow words, and her voice is impossibly calm.

They stand in silence until he grabs her by the scruff of the neck and takes her by the mouth, the press and suck and bite of lip to lip until she can feel his teeth against her skin. His hands knot in her hair and yanks until she hisses into his mouth.

His hand rakes over her shirt, digging in against her breasts, fingers against her nipple and she hisses again, not because it hurts. They kiss fast and frantic like time-fated lovers.

She presses her body to his, tilting up her face toward his. His hipbones press against her own, skeleton and muscle touchable even through the fabrics between them. He takes her face in his hands, thumbs pressing along the symmetrical curve of her jaw, he is there to fill in the empty spaces of her body.

His mouth tracks down the side of her neck and her shirt is stretching against the swell of her breasts. Lightning crashes through the sky although it is a clear night, and she sinks her teeth into his lip.

Her vision is blurry and stinging with tears, and her mouth is wet and Natasha slips her hands beneath the untucked tail of his shirt, on the warm expanse of his back.

She is undressing him, pulling off his shirt, his mouth burning the bone of her clavicle, the jagged breathing as his hands tug one of her legs up around his waist.

Tony pushes her against the wall, he _pushes _and she pushes back, sends him sprawling to the floor, still locked with her. She straddles him and rocks back against his cock, pressing between her legs through two sets of black denim. He tears at her shirt and it's not like she has another and she presses harder against the touch of his broad hands. She kisses him one more time, shaking and furious and hot in her mouth, burning hot under her skin all over, and he moans worse than ever. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, and she makes a low, indecorous sound.

He undoes the zipper of her jeans and she stands and pushes them down over her hips along with her underwear. Her shirt goes next, Tony's jeans, his boxers. He curls in over top of her now and his mouth is featherlight on the curve of her neck, the underside of her breast, Natasha's fingers on his throat.

His mouth lands on her neck, and when he's inside her she grabs onto him and clings like it means something to her. His hands on the small of her back, on her breasts, his hands hapless and foolish and grabbing like she's his to take. She is flush against his sweat-sodden chest, he rocks his hips in purposeful patterns, and she wraps her legs around his waist, skull buzzing.

With every thrust, she holds on tighter like he's worth having. Everything she's ever destroyed has probably been worth having.

Her teeth catch her lips and bite until she can feel blood edging against her teeth. She clenches her thighs and rolls them over, blood on her tongue and heat in her belly, her spine arching against him, the ache and grind of their bodies like another remnant of another fight. She bites back words floating on the tip of her tongue; her heart is in the base of her throat.

His hands are sure and fierce against the contours of her body; he curves a palms against her breast with knowledge long-written in the body and she sucks a moan against his skin, this is deadly and this she lives for and this is temporary and this is forever.

Her eyes sting with tears that won't fall and the edge of the kitchen tiles beneath them cuts into her knee but she fits herself against him and the twinned thrumming of their hearts as they move in tandem is almost, almost enough to drown out the roaring of her thoughts.

She loses track of words after that. Just swallows the words in her throat; they get stuck somewhere around her ribcage, coming out clawed and clinging and moaned and strange—_oh __fuck, oh fuck_.

She grinds her hips against his, (_oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_).

The heat crawls under her skin, sinks deeper and deeper, until its attached to her bones, and the whole world blurs. Blurs and blurs and blurs. Except for Tony.

Tony Stark is never out of focus.

He silences himself against her skin, against the wet warmth of her mouth, the hitching column of her throat, the peak of her nipple.

She rolls off him, and for a moment, clothes sticking to skin sticking to bone, there is nothing in her but exhaustion, marrow-deep and still.

* * *

Natasha blinks herself awake in the dark, and Tony stirs back to consciousness slowly when she sits up, the bed shifting beneath her. She had been dreaming of bloodstains still wet on the walls, on the floor, and the first thing she does is look to her hands. They're clean. She breathes in and out, shaky and slow.

She's only wearing her plain black underwear, her clothes still scattered in the kitchen, and she's blurry-eyed, she's been sleeping, sleeping for god knows how long, and she can't think of the last time she actually slept.

She gets up, padding across the hard-wood floors, and turns on the light. It clicks into a hazy golden sharpness above his head, into his eyes; Tony puts up a hand. "What'd you do that for? I can see just fine in the dark thank you very much."

And he had been able to: her red hair had caught the light filtering through the blinds, the bright light of the moon, and the bones of her face had lit up too like knives in the dark. Most people wouldn't look this beautiful this late, this starkly lit; most people wear out, but not her.

"We need to talk," she says. "I turned on the light so we could look each other in the face."

"About what?" Beneath the sheets, he's exhausted but he sits up. He can see her breasts moving up and down beneath her bra, the sleekness of her skin like it's never been touched. She's standing just out of reach.

"Today's my birthday," She says, and it takes him by surprise, obviously she has a birthday, everyone does, but he'd always liked to think that she sprung into this world all grown-up in full battle armor like Athena. "Just my luck, huh?"

"Well, then, happy birthday, Agent Romanov."

Her eyes glint in the dark, "I'd appreciate it more if you actually meant it," and he kisses the cool column of her throat.

"Would you mean it if you said it to me?"

She's smiling a cat's smile. He can see her tongue behind her teeth. "Probably not."

"Hang on, I'll make it up to you," He stands and walks over to his closet, he goes in and comes back out with an enormous red cellophane heart in his hands. She rolls her eyes and reaches out.

"Really, Stark? It's my birthday, not Valentine's day."

"I'd've gotten you nicer ones, but I didn't exactly know it was your birthday and these have been sitting around here forever now."

Her smile cuts into her cheek, crooked, wry. "Cheap bastard."

"No need to be mean about it."

"No?" She raises her eyebrows and pulls the top off the chocolate box. "Well, I think you've earned yourself a reward."

"What, are you going to slap me again?"

"Are you tempting me to?"

"Vicious."

"You mind viciousness now?"

"Hardly when it comes from you."

She offers him a chocolate-covered cherry and he bites her fingertips.

"Ouch."

"Payback, blood-lust."

She sighs. " admit that maybe I over-reacted earlier. I reached my snapping-point, it's just—" She shivers in spite of herself, a shiver she can't chalk up to cool air. The bedroom is warm, but the sensation ripples, coolly acute, beneath too-warm skin. "I hate birthdays." Every now and again, she feels very young indeed. An ancient life for someone so young. She bites into a coconut cream that sticks her teeth together until it goes away. She swallows.

"So, you didn't come here to be consoled, you came here to vent." He shakes his head, his hand lolls over her waist, loose over her stomach. "Lucky for you that I'm such an accommodating man."

"Oh, yes, of course you are," She rolls her eyes

His mouth is on her neck, where her hair's pulled up, the curve at the base of her skull. She exhales slowly, a strawberry cream in her hands, and she stuffs it into his laughing mouth and rolls a leg over his hip.

It is the dead heat of the night, and she is sliding into his lap, straddling him. He lies back beneath her. She has him at her fingertips, and he knows that if she asked right now he'd promise her as much destruction as she would like him to.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, so I once again want to thank everyone for their review and favorite and all that :)

Here's chapter 5, I wanted to get out my fill of naughty since the next chapter won't be _as _naughty but still-

* * *

The Avengers team plans another night-out and even Thor returns from Asgard for it. Tony ends up agreeing to take the entire team out to dinner, and all the meals for the team are on the house.

Natasha arrives by taxi with Clint. She's actually excited on the ride over—it feels like ages since she's seen the team in full. The sun is dwindling on the horizon when she slides out of the car, Clint at her side. She spots Bruce and Steve and walks over.

Natasha's head is half-turned from him when Tony arrives, she's talking to Bruce, her cherry-red mouth opening with a smile; Tony can't see her eyes, just the lowered dark slice of her lashes. He thinks this is the first time he's seen her in sunlight for a while now: the weak , faltering light catches her, her tight impossible dark green dress seeming even tighter. Natasha tosses her head back, laughing at something Clint says, her teeth biting bright and white into the air around her.

She pulls away from her conversation and is about to start up the path to the restaurant, a path resplendent in white lights, when Tony materializes beside her, she hadn't even seen him (_since when has she started letting her guard down?_). He's dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt, a bow-tie tucked neatly on his neck, and Natasha finds herself staring a little too long.

"Stark," she says, "where have you been hiding?"

Tony walks along side her, etched and shadowed in the setting sun. He shrugs. "I took a moment for business, sue me."

"There's always business," she says, more tartly than she'd intended.

He bends to kiss her cheek but hits her ear instead, he leans the long line of his body over hers, leaning into the space her form leaves empty, lips grazing her ear as he says, "I haven't got business on my mind tonight, though."  
She swallows dryly, pulling back to look up at him.

"That's a lovely outfit by the way," Tony says teasingly, lips curled up in just a hint of a smile. Natasha glances down at the silken green dress that stops a bit above the knee, sleeveless, shining. The dress slices low on the bust and fits tight to her torso but flares out into waves of silk at her hips. She wishes suddenly that she'd worn something less revealing.

Tony grins at her once more, eyes full of sky and sun and then he disappears inside without waiting for her.

* * *

The meal starts, she's seated to the left of Tony, across the table is Clint and Steve, at the left end of the table is Bruce and Thor is at the right The waitress passes by their table, and Thor laughs, boisterous and loud and orders several bottles of wine. The waitress barely disappears into the kitchen when Tony hand grazes Natasha's as they both reach for their wine glasses.

"Sorry," He says quickly and she nods.

As the waitress takes their orders, Natasha has raised her menu, is about to speak—and Tony hand brushes her thigh. Her voice falters just a touch. She regains her composure and continues, maybe it was just another accident, she thinks, he wouldn't dare test me in public.

Natasha looks at him the second she finishes placing her order, daggers in her gaze. But Tony's not looking at her anymore, placing his own order, flashing the waitress a dazzling smile. He's holding his glass between his fingers, steady, filled with the dark-red liquid that in the half-light, resembles blood. She blinks it off and takes a sip of her wine.

The next fifteen minutes are full of long, meaningful glances and there are so many questions building on her tongue. Tony's hand is on her thigh again and she swallows hard. She's sure that Tony can feel her gaze burning a hole into his temple, but he firmly ignores it.

The food arrives not long after, and she thanks the waitress politely when she places her plate down in front of her. She smiles and says, "Oh, this looks like it's going to be excellent," to the others, and then Tony's hand skims the hem of her dress, fingers moving underneath. She freezes, uncertain.

"_Stark_, we're in public," She hisses, leaning in close to him. "I'm warning you."

He shoots her a smile and takes his time, his left hand still where he placed it, and he leans forward and taking small bites of food.

He reaches out and yanks her in closer, she doesn't cry out, she can't cry out.

"Behave," she whispers, clutching at the carved wood of the table to keep her balance.

"Who's misbehaving?" He remarks, eating another forkful of food.

And then his whole hand slides up her inner thigh. She jumps, knocking her knee into the underside of the table. Thor breaks off from his conversation with Steve and glances at her, startled.

"Are you well?" he asks.

She can't help it—she's flushed a dark red. Tony' hand is still the inside of one thigh, his index finger tracing tiny, tempting circles against her skin.

"Yeah, Romanov, what was that?" Stark asks, turning his head towards her. She can see the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

"Sorry," she apologizes to the table as a whole then she directs her next words at Tony, "leg cramp." They all nod and turn back to their plates.

Tony skims his thumb over the edge of her underwear, and she hisses through her teeth again. "Stop it." She could kick his ass, could flip over the table and knock him to the ground. She should demand to know who he thinks he is, manhandling her like this in a public place. But she knows that she won't, because she's not so sure that she wants to spot this.

He's hiking the skirt of her dress up just a little higher and tracing along the seams of her panties. His hand is large, and warm, and really, she's lost even before she's started to put up a fight.

He slips his hand between her legs and twitches his fingers, laying cool skin up between the heat of her thighs. She has no idea what kind of trouble they'll be in if they're caught so she stays calm, breathes in and out, slowly, steadily.

Tony brushes the pad of his thumb along her, rubbing her through her underwear. His touch is rough, firm, and Natasha sinks just a little lower in her seat, pressing herself more solidly against it. She can see him smile into his steak. Natasha's abandoned her own food and is silently praying that no one will notice.

He unceremoniously pushes aside the fabric of her underwear and runs a long finger over her. She closes her eyes briefly, losing herself as the sleek fabric presses damply against her thigh, Tony's fingers are hard and deft and maddening. His fingers slide and press firmly against her clit. His fingers press again, and her breath catches audibly.

Steve glances at her, worry creasing his brow.

"Choked on a bit of wine," Natasha says quickly, patting her chest to reassure him. He nods and turns away.

A long cool finger slips inside her, two, hard but dextrous, a thumb circling her in familiar patterns. She bites back a moan, and she leans, hard, against the back of the seat, shoulders knocking against the smooth wood edges as her back arches slightly, unnoticeable, against the thrust of his fingers, smooth and warmed by her skin.

Natasha bites her lip.

Tony's movements are steady, firm, and purposeful, every crook of his fingers is intentional. His hand pressed right up against her and her hips are fighting to stay still. Her flesh shudders, her thighs part further, hips raising against him.

"Tasha."

Clint's voice breaks through the haze, and she snaps her focus towards him. _Shit_. "Yes?" she asks, trying desperately to keep the shake out of her voice.

"You okay?" he asks, peering curiously at her from across the table. "Have you heard a word I've said?"

"No, I'm listening," she assures him quickly. "I'm just tired."

"Are you sure? You're flushed."

Tony's rhythm is beginning to increase in speed. Her gaze stays focused on Clint, her eyes hazy with desire, "I'm fine," she insists, choking back a gasp.

"Okay," He agrees, his tone skeptical. The conversation around them is still going, Bruce asking Steve something, Thor talking idly to Tony, who is keeping his cover marvelously, but Clint's gaze doesn't leave her face. He knows something's off, she burning up. She lifts her wine glass and takes a sip, spilling a little on her fingers as she shivers with pleasure in her skin. Clint's watching her and Tony's pumping his fingers, she's pinioned where she sits.

The others at the table seem to be having a great time; everyone is laughing and eating, and she thinks maybe Thor is regaling them with a tale of a fight in Asgard, but she honestly isn't sure. Clint's eyes are on her still; his brow is creased just a little bit, his gaze searching. Because of his curious nature, the detail man that he is, he's trying to figure out what's going on, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he studies her.

Tony's fingers are working her more insistently now. Her left hand clenches the edge of her seat; her right, still atop the dinner table, grips around her fork for all she's worth.

When she turns her face to Tony, she finds him staring straight at Clint._What the fuck does he think he's doing?_

"Everything all right, Barton?" Tony asks conversationally. Clint's eyes snap to Tony, startled. "You look a little...disgruntled, is it too hot in here? The air is a little sticky, humid. Moist."

Clint swallows hard and looks away. "I'm doing alright," he mutters. His jawline is firm, almost clenched, and that's when she realizes that he knows. Shit.

Tony's fingers have not broken stride, not once. Clint's fingers tighten around his fork, his knuckles draining of color. Tony's fingers twist inside her, and her thighs clench. It takes every once of her willpower to swallow her moan. She bites her lip and fights to keep her eyes open, she is shaking, breath coming faster.

She relaxes almost at once, her brain a little foggy, and she leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Clint's face is red, eyes wide and unblinking.

Tony's fingers slip from between her legs with a slick sound, tracing a lazy wet trail down her thigh before he wipes them on the napkin in his lap. She wriggles, tugging her skirt back down, out of the corner of her eye, she can see Clint take a long swig from his wine glass.

* * *

"Ready to brave the crowd?"

Natasha, standing just outside the front doorway of the restaurant, shifting on her heels, gives Tony a look. "You know the answer to that," she says. The others had left before them and Clint had given her a sharp look and, "See you later" in an ominous way.

Tony leans next to her, fingers curling where his arm is draped over her shoulders. "Come on, you knew that there were going to be paparazzi lurking about," he says, and his hand slides down her shoulder blades and toward her ass; she thumps her elbow into his stomach, and he huffs out a painful breath of air, hand falling to his side.

"I know," she says when he has finished dramatically massaging his chest. "It just feels – oh, I don't know. Awkward? Invasive?"

"Mmm," he says, pressing his lips together. He shrugs, "Would going back to my house make you feel better?"

"No."

"I've got cake."

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, come on, we both know you didn't touch your dinner once."

"That was _your _fault."

He laughs, "Well, I'm prepared to make up for it now."

Natasha tucks her smile up into her cheek, delicious as a piece of fruit. "Fine. But don't get too used to this, Stark."

He wraps an arm around her waist and they push together through the front doors; the people waiting outside take a breath and then erupt into questions and shouts.

Tony steers her through the crowd, more practiced with paparazzi than she is, as a thousand wheeled metal eyes that would follow them around.

Natasha's glances back at him, catching his gaze, she smiles (brief, like a camera flash) as the lights dance around her head, glinting off the shine in her hair. They duck into Tony's car and drive off to his house.

* * *

The cake is sitting in full glory on the kitchen counter, a bright gold, three-tiered confection blooming with scarlet sugar roses. He goes over to it and looks back at her, biting his lip against a grin.

"See? Wasn't lying about the cake part," Tony smirks. He pulls a knife out of the block by the sink and twirls it once before cutting a thick slice for himself and picking it up with his fingers. "You gonna join me or stand there, Red Russian," he asks, absently licking a strip of frosting off the tip of the knife. Tony plucks a red rose off the top of the cake and holds it out to her; "My lady," he says.

She shakes her head, curtseys, taking it, and she eats it, sugar crumbling and melting on her tongue, as Tony pulls himself up on the counter top and wolfs down his share.

"I hate you, by the way," She says, licking the last of the red sugar off her fingertips.

Tony smiles shamelessly around a mouthful of cake, "Why?"

"You embarrassed us in public," Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Please," he says, thumbing more icing off the knifeblade and licking it, eyes bright with mischief. "I did not embarrass us in public, no one noticed, with the exception of your buddy, Clint."

"You're an ass," She wrinkles her nose, and punches his shoulder.

He ruefully rubs at her shoulder, shooting her a look. "Ouch. Be careful, or I'll send in a paparazzo."

"I swear I will gun the idiot down."

He hops off of the counter, letting the knife clatter into the sink. "I think that'd be shooting the messenger."

"So long as it gets the job done."

He just laughs. Fair enough. She kisses him, full but tender against his lips. He closes a hand around her wrist, drawing her in. He tastes like cake, unthreatening, and he bites his teeth slowly into her lip. Traces the line his teeth made with his tongue.

Natasha lets the bow-tie fall to the floor as he kisses his way down her throat, her back arching, and she reaches between them for the buttons of his shirt. Tony drags his mouth from her neck as he gathers her skirt in his hand and draws it up around her waist, his hands leaving no area unexplored.

She pulls back with arms around his neck, fingertips finding a home in the grooves of his spine as she tilts her chin upwards and kisses him again once more. She breathes in heavily for a moment, then slips to her knees.

One hand clings to his hip, the other unbuckles his belt, tugs down the hem of his pants. Her mouth wraps warm around his cock and _oh_, he mouths wordlessly, swallowing into his open wasn't expecting it, and the look of gratifying surprise that passes over his face is a reward; he swallows back an undignified yelp. When he bites into his mouth, he tastes her lipstick like a kiss left behind. His fingers tangle in her hair harder with every pull of her lips, Natasha'smouth slides down his cock and his eyes roll up to the pristine blankness of the ceiling. He hisses out between his teeth.

She curls her fingers around his cock and, flesh slick and sun-hot in her hand. His eyes are shut, lashes long and casting shadows along the tautened lines of his cheeks. When she moves her mouth she feels him exhale, long and harsh and whole-body. The floor scrapes at the skin of her knees and she digs her fingernails into the bared skin along his hipbones as he jerks beneath her. He'd moan, but the sound is trapped in his throat and he's silent as her tongue draws a lazy map along the line of his cock.

When she pulls her lips along him once more, he gasps for air like a drowning man; he has never been submerged to the brink of drowning, but, lungs starved and aflame in his chest, he thinks it must feel something like this.

She slides out from between his legs, smirking at the look on his face. His pupils swallow his eyes; his look is darker than the shadows can account for.

"Still threatening to let in the paparazzi?" She questions, quirking a brow. She slides out of her dress. Tony picks her up and puts her on the kitchen counter as she smirks into his neck, thighs sliding over his hips.

"Still threatening to gun them down?"

"Try me," she says, and he slips into her and she yelps— "_Fuck_," she gasps, and he laughs, hoarsely, mouth sliding down her neck to her neckline.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi guys:) Thanks for the reviews, favorite, and whatnot. Here's chapter 6, sorry it took so long, it's just I've had a lot of exams over the past week so that's been keeping me busy._

* * *

"Nat, what are you doing?"

Natasha sets aside the book in her hands and looks up at Clint with arched eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"With Stark."

"I'm not doing anything with Stark."

"Really? Cause I saw you two."

"It's nothing."

"Since when do we start keeping secrets from each other?"

Natasha sighs heavily, looking away from him.

"Do you actually like him?" Clint asks, almost laughing.

Her mouth drops open, "What? Clint, don't be ridiculous, of course not." He gives her a pointed look and she shakes her head. "No, no, absolutely not."

Clint shrugs, "Whatever you say."

"Damn you," She rolls her eyes.

"It's because you know I'm right."

"Shut up," She grins at him.

* * *

Fuck, it's been two weeks now since Natasha and Tony's scattered patterns of touching and kissing and fucking fell to a standstill, and she wants to kisses him with those weeks' fury, wants to break the stillness between their mouths.

The facts are these:

She needs to see him.

She wants to see him.

She wants to kiss him.

She intends to make him kiss her.

There, then. The chips fall into place, and something calms in the back of her throat.

She sits on the front steps of the SHIELD building that she and Clint are currently holed up in, eyes closed against the glare of light. The sun is soaking deep into her skin when a shadow falls over her; she doesn't open her eyes to see if she's right. "Hello," she says, and he sits down. Yes, then, she thinks, it's Tony. She'd figured.

"Hi."

With her eyes closed, she can hear a group of SHIELD agents laughing at a distance, the dull baritone voices thrum in the background, and Tony, near her, his distinctive clean, soapy, crisp scent and the rasp of his breath. Raising an eyebrow, she lifts her eyelids, and he is there by her knees, leaning in.

His eyes are lazy and warm and focused on her face. "You ready?"

"For?" She smirks and he stands and pulls her up with him.

"It's a surprise," He sighs as he gets into his car, leaving the passenger side door ajar for her.

"I don't like surprises, Stark," she says, the words falling teasingly off her tongue.

"Oh, just get in, would you?"

She rolls her eyes.

* * *

"A beach?" She beams when they arrive, looking over at him.

"Better, a _private_ beach."

"I could use a swim."

"Shall we?" He asks, stepping out of the car, she hops out, slides into the space at his side. "Want to make some drinks first?" he asks, holding up a basket at her.

"Well, I can't say you didn't come prepared," she says, smiling, "I wouldn't say no to—what do they call those drinks? They put an entire fruit tree in them."

"One of those fruit salads with rum, you mean? The girly ones?"

"Yes, of course, the rum fruit salad." She tilts her chin at him, grinning; she reaches her arm back to close the car door. His hand finds its way to her waist, thumb light against skin. They walk down to the sandy plains of the beach, not too far from the water, but not too close either.

They sit down and in the next thing he says, she finds an excuse to laugh, to breathe into the bright catch at the back of her throat, to trip her breath with amusement.

The sky is blue-violet, evening-dim, lit up by dim flicker of the sun as it slips low and gold in the sky, they are on the precipice of the evening.; the air is citronella-bright.

He makes drinks, loads hers heavy with strawberries and pineapples and his without, refusing to dilute his rum with fruit.

She settles into the sand, slipping off her shoes, bare feet burying in, and he grins again. Birds fly overhead, the splash of water drowning out their tweets. The space between them is small, and he is a dark splotch in his black shirt against the suffusion of blue and green and gold that rolls out around them.

"How did you find this place?"

Tony takes a big bite of a strawberry that he's plucked out of her drink and talks around his mouthful. "Well, my father bought it when I was little. He never took me here though." He looks out at the sea, wordless.

"Hey, I never had a real childhood either," She nudges him slightly.

"I know." He looks at her after what seemed like forever. "Ready to try the water?"

They down the rest of their drinks before standing and heading toward the water. The air is bright and clear, she raises her arms into it, inhaling hard. When she turns her head, he's looking, wordless again—she raises an eyebrow. "It's good to be out, after being cooped up for so long."

"You like being alone, don't you?"

"You get used to it." Tilting her head back—the breeze brushes along the curve of her throat, warmed from within with rum—she catches his eye, smile arch. "I don't like small spaces, but I hardly mind having company."

She pulls down the straps of her tank top, and then pushes her jeans down, they falls to her hips, and she shimmies out of them, balling it along with her top up in her hands.

He points a finger at her, fake surprise on his face. "A compliment, is it?"

"Of course," she says, turning to toss her clothes behind her toward their picnic spot. When she glances at him over her shoulder, his eyes are on her, on the curve of her neck and the bare hollow of her back.

She shakes her head, laughing and makes her way seaside as he pulls off his shirt. The water is sharp and almost cold: she submerges herself in one dive and gasps when she comes back up.

He splashes up gracelessly next to her. "You're not even wearing a swimsuit," he says, raising an eyebrow, and she shivers, shrugs her shoulders. Her hair floats around her like seaweed.

Her legs sink; her toes touch bottom again and she rests them there, reaches back around to push her soaked hair up off her neck. "No one's watching."

She watches it sink into him, his eyes wide and his smile lazy, rum-slowed a second off the brightness in his eyes. "There's that." He dives in, arms sluicing through the water, and she pushes off the bottom again, floating onto her back. His hand catches her ankle from beneath, rests there. "Gotcha."

"I wasn't running."

"Well, you can't exactly run in water," He raises an eyebrow, thumb absent along the curve of her heel, and she flexes her leg, calf tautening against his fingertips.

The rum blurs the world at its edges—violet sky, blue water, her red hair, his ruffled brown hair. His eyes are clear; his hand is on her skin.

"That does put a damper on the ability to run," she says, her mouth tastes like salt water and the back of her tongue still tastes fruit from the drink; her back arches against the water and his hand is still on her foot. Her leg hikes between them, curving through the water. "But I wouldn't run from you, in any case—" her breath hitches, high like laughter in her throat, and his other hand reaches out. His fingertips skim along the wet ends of her hair, where it falls in points against her cheek, her neck. She arches into his hand, spine, legs, moving in against him; this is like a dance, this would be graceless on land but they are suspended, floating, in the water, and her arms loop around his neck, her face tips up.

She smiles slowly, light lilting over her features and someone makes off with her wits. He holds her hands and she can feel his pulse under her fingertips, beating much more loudly than she's sure it ought to be.

His hand leaves her calf, snakes up the expanse of her thigh to hold her by the hip, by the small of the back, and her feet are still not touching the ground.

Natasha moves from his grasp, arching toward the sun, her hands tracing through the waves, and he swallows and lies back and the water carries him like warm hands.

He catches her again, the crest of her hipbones curving in the palms of his hands, and when he surfaces he sputters and presses the last of his saved breath in a kiss against her ribcage. His arms wrap around her waist and he pulls her up against him, into his arms—she kicks, yelping, a wave of water ricocheting around them.

"What are you doing!" Her arms still loop easily around his neck; she knocks her cheek to his, her nose to his temple, laughing.

"Rescuing a—"

"Damsel? T_on_y."

"C'mon, give a guy props for chivalry."

"Chivalry is dead, I hear."

He carries her out of the water and she kicks all the way.

"You can put me down now," she says, shaking her head, and he puts her down on the sand. She kneels to pick up her shoes and clothes, to let him collect his shirt. She watches him put it on—the breadth of his shoulders, the movement of his abdomen, breath warm in her throat when she looks at him.

His face and hair catches the light off the sun that almost completely set, lighting him up gold. She flushes, she seems almost a girl again when she does that, as if the years of horrors and this day had never passed, as if that nightmarish spell was just that—a nightmare.

"So—your first reprieve since like ever. How does it feel?" he asks, and she pulls a face.

"Go to hell, would you?"

"Hey now," he says, he levels an accusing finger at her. "Play nice."

"I am playing nice, you should see me at my worst," she says with a raised eyebrow and a smile tugging at the corner of her lip.

"A super-spy at her worst, not something I hope to see," He says to her.

"A super-spy," She echoes, shaking her head, damp curls brushing her neck. "I bet it's every little girl's dream to be a murderer when they grow up."

"You're not—"

Natasha waves him off. "I know, I know, I was just making a point. I plan on doing something else—someday, I suppose. When all this is done."

They subside into silence, and she doesn't even realize her teeth are chattering until Tony drops an arm around her shoulders and tugs her close. She watches the sky, tucking her hands in close to her side. The light on the horizon is dimming to a pink-tinged color, surrounding by the navy nighttime sky.

"Is it really so bad?" he asks abruptly. "Being a spy, I mean."

"No!" she says. "No, really, it's not. I love my job, you know that. It's just tough sometimes, especially when you add my past into the equation, and — well, it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do with my life."

"Let me guess, you wanted to be a ballerina or a princess?"

She chuckles and shakes her head. "A doctor, actually."

Tony is quiet for a moment, and then he nods slowly. "Good for you," he says. "I mean it. I've never really had that kind of ambition—I just kind of fall into things. I went into the weapon-making business because my father was in it, I created the Iron Man suit because I had to. I survive through the missions on dumb luck." He pokes her knee, but his eyes are earnest: "I admire you for it. Honestly."

She flushes; she's never been able to take a compliment gracefully, especially when it's coming from a man who so rarely granted them, and she casts around for something to say, to push the conversation off herself.

"But you know, even if you created the suit because you had to," Natasha says finally, she can't quite help the words from spilling from her lips, "you're still a hero."

"Ha," he says, but in the half-light she can see that he's smiling.

Natasha tries valiantly to ignore his closeness, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the heavy warmth of his body where it presses against her arm and hip; she turns away slightly, letting her hair disguise her pinking cheeks.

Teeth white against the pink of her lip, she looks to the sky. Her eyes are dark, darker than the spaces caught among the stars. "We should probably start heading back to civilization now."

"Unfortunately."

They stand and walk half-apart across the ticklish expanse of tall grass, to the car. Her hip nudges against the hand that rests by Tony's side, and he slides it over the curve of her waist, easy, lazy, allowed.

She slips back into her clothes in the car, smoothing the soft-cotton fabric of her tank top down as she settles in the passenger seat. She combs the tangles out of her hair with her finger until her scalp tingles rigorously.

She's shivering slightly in the breeze and tasting salt and rum against her mouth as she hops out of the car when they reach his mansion, her teeth bite along her lip as she looks over at Tony, filtering out the lights that line his driveway and the moon and so many kinds of light. The night is bright; it's bright for them.

They are silent, and the silence follows them up the stairs and down the hall, follows them to the front door.

"I just want to say," She says, breaking the silence, taking a deep breath. "Thank you."

"What was that?" He dips his head in close, hand behind his ear. "I didn't quite catch it."

She punches him lightly in the shoulder, the gesture warm and intimate and worn like a secret, "Hey, don't push it."

Tony fumbles for the key he slipped into his shoe—the door swings open under his hand. Their footsteps are loud in the entryway of his house, clacking on the imported tile.

Her heart thumps a little loudly in her chest as he brushes a stray strand of hair that has settled against her jaw. Her lips part as if she can taste him from here.

Lightly, she kisses him.

Not lightly at all, he kisses back.

She can feel the lingering curve of a smile on his lips. Their mouths are hot with sand and sun and the drunken-sugar burnt heat of dark rum; there is salt on her lips and fruit lingering at the back of her throat. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, and he makes a low, indecorous sound.

When she pulls back, there is something cautious on his face, wariness piercing through the rum.

He takes up so much of her space, his arc-reactor is brushing her chest, and his hand curls into her hair. _Oh shit_, she thinks, maybe she should stop this. It seems too personal, invasive somehow, something that makes this time different from all the others. Opening her mouth to protest, she wills words into being. But the only sound that comes out is a fairly undignified squeak as his thumb tips up her jaw and his mouth is on hers.

Slow. Languid. Lips. Stubble. _Oh shit, this is so not good_, she thinks, this isn't the usually tempo that she and Tony took and the feeling in her gut is warm and by god, she would almost call it passion, if, of course, she didn't know better. But her ego is apparently sitting back without comment, her hands grabbing him by the neck and pulling him closer.

Call it compensation for a long night, she thinks, call it the rum's fault.

His stubbled chin razors a warm path down the side of her neck down to her breasts.

They make it to the end of the hallway upright enough, and then they hit his bedroom door and his hands nearly forget to reach for the doorknob; she is sleek against him, her hands are beneath his shirt.

He takes her face in his hands, kisses her and feels her bend in, the height of her in her heels, the cotton of her tank top crumpling under his hands as he tries to pull her into a shape like his. It is he who leans into her, who could lose his balance if she stepped back; good thing, then, that he is betting on a body that's bending to him. A woman who's sighing into his mouth with all she has.

The door to his room opens, and he trips back over wood-varnish; he takes her hands in his. She gives a half-laugh and his brain goes blank, staring at him from underneath her eyelashes. He doesn't say anything, just looks at her with dark eyes, vibrating hands and a lost heartbeat.

He kneels on the bed and she follows, he is under her hands, her fingers competent with his button and zipper. He bunches the fabric of her dark jeans in his hand and she hitches her leg.

She pushes him back against the bed and she slides in with her jeans unbuttoned and half-pushed down her thighs to meet him. She leans into him, the whole weight of her pressing breathless against him, and he wraps his arms around her waist. Sliding his broad hands up her narrow back, she revels in the way they fit together. Her knees are digging into his ribs; she swears he can feel the heat of her in spite of the clothes between them.

He tracks a hand up her leg, up to the heat between her legs, and she sucks a sigh into his mouth against his upper lip. He tears at her jeans until she lifts her legs up and pulls them off, she tugs her tank top up and over her head and they tear and tear until she is naked beneath him, long and pale and soft, and she pulls at his clothing until there's no fabric between them anymore when her hand reaches between his legs, and he groans like he's been wounded.

She knots her fingers in his hair as she kisses him. Shifting his face, he bites a small, soft kiss against her neck; her skin is tastes like the ocean and the bitter-sweet tang of perfume and her fingers tighten against his scalp, pulling his hair back as she leans in to kiss him full on the mouth. Her mouth is lush and hungry over his—if ever she is graceless, it is now, in the clumsy bridge of the evening and night, in the privacy of his room and his bed.

She looks at him, impossibly direct; she can see the reflection of her own eyes in his. "Tony," she whispers, biting it into her lower lip. The last syllable catches somewhere between her tongue and lips.

His hands dig into her skin, hard enough to bruise as he slides into her, rolling over and pinning her against the mattress and she arches hard against him, clenching her thighs around his hips. She sucks in air around the shape of his name and tosses her hips against his and his breath catches; she smiles, a pert, wry expression that quickly dissolves at the next drive of his hips.

Her fingers meet his before she notices, hands joining like a habit. He is inside her, and she is untouchable, she thinks, pulling him tight against her, hips beneath her hands. He is long above her, familiar, and they have slid into this place many times and yet her head still feels like it's filled with wine. She hooks one leg behind his knee to pull him closer.

She knots with him—him and the sheets twisted around them, hands and joints and breath warming the air. Natasha kisses him feverishly, all teeth and unrepentant lips, one hand curving against his chin with her nails digging into the flesh of his cheek. He abandons her lips, kissing a blazing trail down the length of her arched throat. He opens his mouth against her skin. Tongue hot, he licks a slow path over bone, over every ridge.

His hand slips down her leg, clasps it to his hip, traces up her ankle, and goose-bumps spring up on her skin. His hand rides higher, resting half-way up her thigh, her muscles jumping under his touch. The wide span of his hand is warm and sure on her skin.

He lets out a loud moan, just once, a brief sound, and she rakes her fingernails once over the back of his neck as he shudders out his last between her legs, biting a groan into her soft shoulder. He presses his face into her curls and blocks the world out of sight, fingers lingering. She is shaking now, eyes closed, breath coming faster, biting his name into her lip. She turns her cheek toward the pillow, and she bites.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Ahhh, I'm so sorry for not updating, I've been very busy lately but here's the next chapter. Finally x)**_

* * *

It's four in the morning when Natasha wakes up, watching the sky pale and lit up her neck resting in the crook of Tony's arm. When she gets up, she pulls the quilt off the top of the bed and leaves him snoring slightly— pads out into the kitchen for a glass of water. When he wakes up, she's curled on the window seat with a book.

"Which one?" Tony asks, voice raspy with sleep before he says anything else.

"Harry Potter_, _actually_,_ I've never read it in full. Never got the chance I suppose," She looks down. "Too busy."

"Keep it, then."

"I can't, it's yours and I'd never find time to read it, Clint and I—"

"Please, I'm a billionaire, you don't think I could buy another copy of the Sorcerer's Stone? You'll get a break eventually, it's an easy read."

He stands up, walks over and puts his hands on her shoulders—she cannot help but flinch a little at them. His thumb strokes the nape of her neck idly, and she shivers.

When she pushes herself up, swinging her legs off of the window seat, her knees knock against his where he's standing in front of her and rest there. They are touching, and normally, she wouldn't really find it in her to mind, but after last night—and god, she is sober now, she is thinking now and she thinks that she shouldn't have let herself get this close. Tony's eyes are lazy and warm and focused on her face. She smiles weakly and he smiles and there, that's better, that's like ease.

"Call it a belated birthday gift," he says.

"Oh, how very generous of you, Mr. Stark," She says, shaking her head and she feels him shrug behind her.

"I know, I'm awesome like that."

He reaches an arm out and she steps in next to him, lets him loop his arm around her waist against the quilt, his fingers lighting on the bone of her hip, grazing the edge of her stomach.

"I've got to get back to headquarters. Well," she says. "This afternoon."

He smiles. "Good, because I'm not done with you yet."

* * *

They stumble through the streets, sun bright in their eyes and the scent of hot pavement and fumes, and really— he's forgotten where they're going. Or rather, he isn't even sure he had a place in mind.

"We're lost." Natasha stops, tugging on his arm. "You don't even know where you were going to take me."

"No"- he's trying here, head swinging around- "No, we are not lost. I—"

"Yes." Natasha shakes her head. "Yes, we are."

She sits herself down on a bench. "This is your fault," she states, pointing a finger at him, "Therefore, I insist that you if you wish to continue, you have to carry me to whichever destination you wish me to reach." She's looking at him. Expectantly.

It's his turn to sigh but his arms slip around her easily and he hoists her up, her eyes go wide in surprise, she hadn't expected him to actually do it, she wasn't being entirely serious. For about ten seconds, it's golden.

He sweeps her off her feet.

"Tony, I—"

Then they fall, hard,and they're a tangle of limbs on the sidewalk, her hair is all over his face and why the hell is she laughing?

He glances at her and she doesn't stop. His back hurts, his knee is sore but she's laughing and she manages to look perfectly put together when he helps her up.

"Er. Sorry. It's too early in the morning for this," He says, brushing off his jeans.

"I'd say that the once great Tony Stark has lost his spark," She teases, elbowing him.

He shoots her a look. "We both know that's not true. I'm still practically asleep, I haven't eaten breakfast yet."

"Whatever you say." They start walking together and he finally looks down at her, and laughs.

"Okay, maybe that wasn't my smoothest moment," He admits and she nods.

"You think?"

"But I have figured out where I'm going to take you."

"And where's that?"

"It's a surprise."

"Another one?"

"I thought you liked yesterday?"

"Yes, well," She looks down, clears her throat. "I mean look, about yesterday, I think it is best if we, if I'd just— if I could— or you could—it's really not that big of a deal but—"

He looks at her.

She stops.

"Natasha," he says, and she averts her gaze, but he must have seen the way her cheeks pinked at her name in his mouth, "I get it."

She leans heavily on the heel of one , she'd promised herself she wouldn't do this. "Of course that doesn't mean that we can't," She looks down. "Continue."

"Was that you admitting that you actually," He smirks, one hand pressing into the small of her back. "Like doing this?"

She shakes her head and can't help smiling— the pleased lazy shiver making tracks between her vertebrae is not something she entirely wants to shake.

His arms slide swiftly up her sides, hooked through her own and her palms are pressed to his back. He can feel her, all of her through the fabric that divides them and she feels warm and soft and still sharp, like the taste of fresh lime in the corners of your mouth.

She pulls a face, "I might, if you could actually learn to carry someone properly."

He shifts from one foot to the other, a beat of uncertainty, for a second he looks like a child. Then he smiles and he's all devil.

"I promise I can," Tony glances sidelong at her, the corner of his mouth curling upwards, then he descends, kissing her in an attempt to wipe the sour look off her face.

"I'm holding you to that," she says, letting him go.

Natasha looks around the busy street, trying to commit everything to memory, something to pull out later and remember this day, when her phone goes off.

She answers, listens silently before hanging up.

"What's going on?" Tony asks.

The words don't come easy, but they come. "I—" She frowns. "It's Director Fury, he needs us to come in. All of us."

* * *

When they arrive, the familiar SHIELD atmosphere greets them warmly, despite the cold white tiled floors and sharp suits everywhere, it welcomes them like an old friend. Natasha slips off to go to her quarters and Tony goes to the meeting room. The interior is uniform in color. Black, silver, with the occasional fleck of steel and glass. Steve, Thor and Bruce are already waiting and Tony sighs and throws himself into the chair left of Bruce.

Natasha slides into the seat left of Tony's and Clint slides into the seat next to hers. She's back in her SHIELD uniform and she looks as professional as the rest of 's like a white dwarf, small but somehow not eclipsed by the giants who roam around her. She shines so dimly, but burns as hotter than the rest combined. His eyes flicker over her, appreciating more than he's inspecting. She is exactly as he expects and doesn't look away as his eyes roam carelessly and then meet her face. He remembers the first time he met her, the red of her hair had seemed almost unbearably bright against her pale skin and when she smiled, it was all lips and no warmth, he'd looked straight at her and it was like she was looking through him.

Tony, smiling to himself, jostles with her for elbow space on the table. She makes a face at him and attempts to shove his arm away, but he elbows her back.

"Behave," she hisses, clutching at the glass table to keep her balance.

"You first," he whispers back. They lapse into silence as Nick Fury comes in, looking the same as he ever does, somehow unchangeable and un-aging.

He's saying something but Tony's pressing his shoulder into hers.

"So, you gonna come by later?" He whispers.

Natasha doesn't look at him, but she leans close and whispers, "Not if you're going to drop me again."

Tony strangles a laugh. And Director Fury clears his throat dramatically; Tony and Natasha look to see him glaring daggers at them both.

"We've received some new information on the rising threat, Thanos. A credible source tells us—"

"Mind telling us who this insider is, Fury?" Tony cuts in. Nick gives Tony a wide and soundless look and Tony nods. "Right, I'll shut up now."

"Thanos means to court Death, or the entity known as Death," Fury continues. "In order to impress Death, he's going to destroy the Universe."

"But he can't actually do that right?" Steve frowns. "I mean, no one man can do all of that."

"At a surprisingly young age, Thanos wiped out the population of his planet. And then he traveled the universe seeking ways to kill populations in order to woo Death," Director Fury tells him. "I assure you, he can and will do everything to wipe out not only Earth, but everything."

"So what's the plan of attack?" Natasha asks him, expecting an answer, and everyone looks to Nick, expecting Director Fury to play leader, wise man, saint— whatever works.

"We're working on it," He says, doesn't hesitate, can't hesitate, he has to be resolute. "In the mean time, we need you all to stick together and keep an eye out."

Nick leaves the room and everyone gets up to leave, Clint stops Tony and Natasha at the doorway.

"Where were you two today?"

"Reconnaissance," Tony says. It comes out easily, a cover story established long ago.

Natasha rolls her eyes but looks up at him, Clint barks out a laugh and shakes his head—"have you slept with the enemy yet?"

"I hope to," He smirks. "I hear it's quite the strategy."

* * *

"So, does he know that you like him?" Clint asks Natasha when they're alone, whispering in conspiratorial tones.  
She levels him with a stare. "No. And I'm not going to say anything."

"I think he likes you too, you know. I mean, if you're telling the truth, he took you out to a beach, you spent the night at his house and then he was going to take you out again the next day," Clint says, shrugs. "I don't know, but it seems to me that you two are getting together."

"Well," she says, scooting her chair closer, wincing at the sound it makes against the metallic floor of Clint's room. "You seem to think you know everything."

His mouth curls into a smile. "Yeah," he says. "I bet you're even learning to trust him."

She scoffs, "Hardly," she says, and watches his smile broaden. "Clint, I'm serious."

He shakes his head, still smiling, "I have no control over this."

"I know, I know." Natasha stands up and drags her leather jacket on. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Always."

She leaves the building and starts driving, finding herself on her way to Tony's house.

* * *

Tony looks up at where Natasha's standing at the foot of the bed and she doesn't smile at him, but there's something playing behind her eyes that tells him she's happy she's here with him. The t-shirt she wears has a neckline that is all the way up her neck and the sweatpants don't reveal much either. She doesn't want to be a display piece, doesn't need to be. No more skin is shown than is needed.

It's almost odd to see her like this, because she's Natasha Romanov, because she's always prepared for a role, always in the middle of this mission or that one, always using whatever means to achieve her end. Because she's guiltless eroticism on two long legs.

Natasha sits on the end of the bed, passes a hand over her face.

"What?"

Maybe she can feel his eyes on her. Maybe he is just that obvious.

Tony clears his throat. "Are you… you know?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you...okay?"

She laughs, sharp and not particularly amused. "Not really, but you learn to deal with it."

"Well, from my standpoint, you look cold. And in need of a nap."

"Gee, Tony. What gave that away?" She just shakes her head, "But what if the entire universe collapses if I do? And with the way things have been going lately, I wouldn't be surprised if it actually did happen."

"Well, maybe it'll be safe to sleep, just for a night." He says, and the smile he gives her should have been comforting, but only served to let her know that she'd be alone in sleeping, should she choose to.

Tony leans back against the sea of pillows and soft sheets on his bed and smiles to himself as Natasha sprawls out in the center of the bed.

"So, tell me a story," says Tony as he's half-way through pulling his t-shirt off.

"Which one?" She says, "There's quite a few."

"Pick one."

She pulls down the waistband of her sweats, (underwear? what underwear?), and reveals a scar. "One of many," she tells him, and, he realizes that he's never noticed them before, "this one is my first one though. I was fifteen. A guy pulled a knife on me and then I killed him. It was self-denfense, but then again, I guess we all have blood on our hands."

It had never really bothered Tony before that blood could be on his hands— but he has killed for the good of the people, maybe even losing some of the said people along the way. And this thought becomes deafening as a chorus, screaming in apex. And for a moment, it wears heavy, heavy as millstones before he feels Natasha looking at him and he feels her presence as a tangible fact near his own.

"Let me touch it," he says, and she pretends to sigh dramatically, pulls down her sweats until they're almost off her hips, bares her heart and her skin to his hands, lets him.

After being Iron Man and being in that cave when he was captured, Tony finds himself uneasy around the things that are too clean, too perfect. Blood and filth and war have ground into his skin, and a woman with scars suites him fine, suites him best.

He meets her eyes, and does not shy away at what he sees there, although she thinks he should. There is a long, long moment of silence, and then—

His mouth snags on hers, cutting through the air between him. Her hand furls in Tony's hair and pulling, nails against his scalp and fingers against the back of his neck. Tony's quick, knowing hands search for skin against fabric, and his fingers curling into her flesh.

She reaches up and runs a hand through hair, feeling it curl beneath her fingers, the scrape of beard under her jaw as he kisses her neck, hands pulling her in at the waist and moving slow and sure and easy down the slope of her back. Tony's hands know where to go, cartography of her body easy beneath his hands like maps long-made.

She bites at the soft skin of his neck and feels him swallowing, swallowing; she slides a hand between his legs, palm against the ridge his cock makes through his pants and he muffles his mouth against her hair.

Natasha opens her mouth, but before there are words, there are Tony's teeth against her lower lip, biting to draw blood.

She pulls away from him, falling sinuous against the sheets. "I think I'm gonna go to sleep now."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Of course."

She smiles with self-satisfaction as folds her arms behind her head. She should stay awake with him. She should try to coax him into closing his eyes too, they could both do with some sleep. Instead, she curls against him and shuts her eyes.

Tony lays beside her and wraps an arm around her. Her mouth quirks and she is smiling for him.

This would never work, they both know it but there's no reason to skip to the ending just because they see it coming.

She knew about love once, of course she did, it's indoctrinated with everyone, but the cleverness and knowledge of how the world really works knocked it out long ago, and good thing too. There is still space in some vestigially clever part of her brain, some part not quite caught up to the maddening touch of Tony's body against hers, some part of her thoughts that's kept the space to ponder over the idea of love. But god, she's worried that that's what's behind her own eyes. She might be fuzzy with sleep, but she can feel the particular care with which Tony's arm is curled around her. They_ care_, it's not just lust, she thinks, how invasive.

Eventually he'll get bored of her, or she'll get bored of him, she's almost certain. There's too much risk and this, she, isn't worth the loss—not when he has all the world opening up before him, not when he's got money in over-abundance and fame and the title of 'hero'. If the roles were reversed she'd never pick him.

(This is a lie. Poorly constructed and easily seen through. But it's enough to let her sleep at night. That's all that really counts.)

All is not well, but it never is, not in the job, and not out of it.

She closes her eyes, and they fade, warmly, to black.


End file.
